


thank pitchforks and pointed ears

by Medie



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We're not going to die you idiot," she says. "Spock wouldn't give me the satisfaction of being right."</p>
            </blockquote>





	thank pitchforks and pointed ears

**Author's Note:**

> I promised [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=life_on_queen)[**life_on_queen**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=life_on_queen) a girl!McCoy fic and asked for a prompt. She gave me ""The Naked Time" porn? After being stripped of his inhibitions, ship's Captain James T. Kirk strips his CMO, Lenore McCoy of her pants..."

"Harrison, where the hell is that report?" she snaps into the comm. A long stretch of silence follows her question and she _thinks_ that maybe she hears a giggle, but fuck if she can be sure. Between Lieutenant Riley's godawful singing (and for once she actually feels sorry for Spock. If it sounds bad to _her_ ears, it's a damn miracle he hasn't tried to hit her up for cotton balls) and his random channel jumping, Len's not even sure she has the right lab. She's not even sure she has a lab at all.

She looks back at Chapel, standing over Sulu, and Chris looks as glassy-eyed and strung out as she feels. "I'm gonna have to go down there."

Chris nods. She sways a little on her feet and when she speaks, her voice is thick and slurred, "Len, I think -- "

"You are," she agrees. They're all infected. It's moving like wildfire through the crew and about the only people left unaffected are the ones locked down in quarters. And Lenore has her doubts about most of them too.

She rubs her forehead. Her head's splitting. Every hangover she's ever had times a billion. "One thing's for damn sure, it's not a phobia when you're always _right_." Pushing up from her chair, she points at Chris. "Hold it together, Doctor," she says, "that's an order."

God, she's starting to sound like Jim, and _that_ is a hell of a lot more disturbing than Riley's singing.

She pushes her hands down the hem of her skirt (which she's never wearing again, Jim's teasing be damned. Every goddamn time she does, all hell breaks loose. That's an omen if she ever saw one.) and nods. "That one goes double for me." It'd be damn embarrassing to fall apart _now_.

Stumbling across sickbay, she clears the door on unsteady feet, heading for the turbolift. Should be embarrassing how second nature it is, staying on her feet when every part of her body's screaming for the floor, but the best Lenore can manage is a wry grin.

All those nights stumbling home drunk turned out to be good for something.

Her boot slips, sending her skidding across the floor, and Lenore curses loudly. The floor's covered with red paint (where the hell'd they get _that_?) and when she goes to her knees, checking the kid for a pulse, she realizes who it is.

"Aw hell, Chekov," she sighs. He's alive. A bump on the head and paint smearing down the wall a testament to what happened. Lenore shakes her own head and pushes herself up to slap a hand on a console. "McCoy to Sickbay, Christine, Chekov's three sections down. Somebody get that boy in a bed." She pauses, thinking better of it, "A _biobed_."

Christine's answer - a snort - says she's holding up. Definitely better than Lenore or the ship. The Enterprise is a mess. Somewhere, if Scotty's not crying yet, he's damn well about to be.

She doesn't wait for the team. She satisfies herself that Chekov will be fine (if sporting one hell of a goose egg) and then she moves along. That report is sitting on a padd somewhere and it doesn't give a tinker's damn about the contagion racing through her system. She's held it together this long, but there are no guarantees. An hour from now, a _second_ from now, she might be a blithering idiot on the floor and no good to anyone.

A second later she is no good to anyone, but not for because of contagion. Before she can reach the turbolift, a hand closes around her wrist, and she finds herself yanked out of the corridor into a briefing room. _Her_ briefing room. She gets a glance at her coffee cup still sitting there from this morning's Medical briefing, before the mess with Tomlinson, and then she's pinned against a wall by a familiar body.

"Bones."

"Jim?" Lenore sighs, taking the sight of him. "Aw hell, you too?"

His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and his respiration's up. Sweat beads itself across his forehead, and, yep, official diagnosis: they. are. so. _very_. fucked. If Jim's got it, then the command staff is infected, and -- fuck.

She sighs. "Please, just tell me that Spock -- "

"He's fixing the engines," Jim grits out. It's as if every word is a herculean effort and speaking of herculean --

Lenore works hands between them, trying to push him away. It's half-hearted, but this is Jim, and they are not going to do this _here_. "Jim," she says as gently as possible, "you're infected. _I'm_ infected and the ship is about to -- "

"Blow up," Jim says. "Engines are cold." He presses closer, his hands resting on her hips. "We're gonna die, Bones." His hips bump hers and, god, he's hard. Typical. They're about to be a smear on an ice planet and _now_ Jim wants to fuck. So goddamn typical Lenore thinks about crying.

She snorts. She hasn't cried since Jocelyn left, hell if she will now. Alien contagion/influence/_whatever_. She grabs Jim's uniform tunic, fully prepared to knock him on his over-inflated ego, but ends up pulling him closer. _Not_ what she had in mind.

She's getting worse. Her heart's pounding, blood roaring in her ears, and she can feel herself slipping.

"We're not going to die you idiot," she says, fighting for control. "Spock wouldn't give me the satisfaction of being right."

He nods. "Okay." He grins. "Hey, you wore it!" His hands slide down her waist, over her thighs, and _fuck_ that feels good. "You've got legs."

Lenore rolls her eyes. Jim always was a spacey drunk. When he wasn't getting his face punched in that is.

"I like it," he decides. "Bones with legs." He looks down at them again, suddenly solemn as Spock when he says, "Really _great_ legs." He raises those mournful eyes to hers. "How come I never noticed your legs before?"

"I usually hide 'em in pants," Lenore says. "Which, if we live, is where they'll be again."

"Don't," Jim says. "Be a shame." His fingers skim lazy circles, making her shiver beneath his hands. "Total shame."

She raises an eyebrow (God, Spock is a bad influence) at him. "And why the hell is that?"

He grins again and she feels those fingers drift lazily to her inner thighs, creeping upward. "Jim -- " she starts to protest, except she's already sighing, her hips moving forward with the strokes of fingers against cotton. Her head's swimming and whether it's the contagion or him or whatever else it could be, Lenore doesn't know. Doesn't care.

She mutters an oath, hands grabbing him tightly. "Jim, you've got the worst goddamn timing I've ever seen."

"Yep," Jim agrees. His fingers work a circle around her clit, rubbing cotton into wet skin, and she keens. "You complaining?"

A thought whispers through her mind. An idea she's been bouncing around. The way the contagion's been behaving -- "No, it can't be," she says on a broken moan. Jim's fingers work around, hooking into her underwear, and she's not sure where the damn pantyhose went and she doesn't care. Not when Jim's going to his knees and, sweet lord, his _tongue_.

He goes to work, hooking one leg over his shoulder, his hands holding her hips, and Lenore's moaning again, even before his tongue works its way up to her clit.

"Worst goddamn timing, ev--oh _fuck_, Jim." She shouldn't be surprised that he's good at this, not when the man's screwed his way through half of Starfleet, but she is. She moans and curses, riding his face, and oh _god_. "Do that again!" she demands, well and truly lost to it now. Fuck the Enterprise. Fuck psi1000. She doesn't give a damn about any of it just as long as Jim's tongue hits swipes over her clit, wiggling rightthehell_there_ and she's screaming.

She moves, or he moves her - they're fumbling, spinning - and the table is there beneath her legs, Jim between them, and Lenore hauls him down on top of her.

Jim's hands rip at her uniform, the fabric parting beneath his hands, and she's laughing. His mouth on her breast makes that laugh turn into a breathless moan and when he slides into her, thrusting without any suggestion of rhythm or pattern, just pure, mindless fucking, she cries out again.

He's muttering against her chest, a steady stream of comments that make next to no sense. She catches snippets about the engines, her tits, so hot, so good, fuck yeah _Bones_, then it's Spock and the ship and never letting go, and then she's coming again and Lenore can't hear a goddamn thing.

They fuck again, and again, and the ship doesn't explode or smear itself on psi1000 (that damn Vulcan just _can't_ let her be right for once) and Lenore wakes up to a hiss of a hypospray against her shoulder.

Since she's on the floor amid the remnants of their uniforms, Jim wrapped tight around her, she knows she's not responsible and oh _god_.

A fresh uniform appears in front of her. Pants this time. Thank fuck. She looks up at a red-cheeked Christine.

"You were right."

"Was?" Lenore rubs her forehead. "God, my head -- " she's got the hangover from hell, but to her consolation, Christine doesn't look any better. "RIGHT." She snaps her fingers. "The contagion -- "

"Water." Christine nods. "We have no idea _how_ but, you were right, the test confirmed it. Somehow it was acting like alcohol." Her grin is wry. "Scotty's already trying to figure out how to bottle the stuff."

Lenore pulls her undershirt on over her breasts, her very _sore_ breasts, and glares. "The hell he will." Chief Engineer Scott's next physical is going to _hurt_. "What'd you hit me with?"

"Counteracting serum." Christine looks past Lenore at the captain. "They're looking for him."

"They'll keep looking," Lenore says, her warning loud and clear. "The captain is indisposed. Spock can handle it." She rests a hand on Jim's head. "His injection?"

Christine passes the hypo. "I thought you'd want to take care of it personally." She rises. "I've got a few hundred more to hand out. I'll see you later."

She beats a hasty exit and Lenore doesn't blame her. She just looks down at the sleeping man beside her and sighs.

"Okay, Jim, the world didn't end. Now what?"


End file.
